By: Jennifer Richardson Holt
Genetics is far more interesting than I realized. I mean, I always knew there were passed-down traits like eye color and hair texture. I know that my daughter, who is very tall for her age, is a product of her tall mother and tall father. None of that is particularly intriguing, though. That sort of thing seems very matter-of-fact to me. But as my daughter gets older and blossoms more and more each day into her own person, I am learning that a great deal more than a long torso or blue eyes runs in the blood.
I used to think that certain features of my mind were simply quirks of my individual personality. Apparently, I was wrong, because these seem to be things I have passed down to my daughter. The unique qualities of my thinking and the way my brain works are not, as it turns out, characteristics that belong only to me. I am continually learning this as I watch my daughter think about things exactly as I do. She likes odd things that I thought I was odd for liking, and she is enamored of things I was certain enamored only me. My mind is boggled by the things she and I have nearly identical feelings about—things I never imagined could be passed from mother to child.
This started long before the event I want to tell you about, but this particular moment struck me so deeply that I want to talk about it right away. Last week, we were on vacation in our beloved mountains. We drove through Cade’s Cove, as we do every year. For those not in the know, it is an eleven-mile scenic loop through an achingly gorgeous valley dotted with old homeplaces, cemeteries, and churches. It is so beautiful that every time I see it, my eyes and my mind have an argument over whether it is even real. My eyes know those huge mountains truly are that tall, with smoke draped around their peaks. My brain insists they are some sort of fabricated backdrop for calendar photographs.
We drive the loop, seeing all sorts of animals and visiting the old historic homes. We get out and walk through the cemeteries, reading the dates and pondering the stories of the families who rest in those beautiful surroundings. There is one cabin, though, that holds a very special place in my family’s heart. It is a small, single-room cabin with a quaint front porch and a minimal loft. It sits in a little meadow surrounded by forest, with a small stream running behind it, just a short walk from the back door. It is the last cabin on the loop: the Carter Shields Cabin.
I am not certain what it is about this little spot that has always drawn us in. From the time I was a child, my parents and I always stopped here to explore. You can’t even see the mountain views from this house, but it is so nestled in the woods, so tucked away, that there is something homey and familiar about it. I have told my daughter how much we love this cabin on the loop, and she has embraced it. Carter would have been her name if she had been a boy. That is how endearing this place is to us.
This year, when we stopped, I insisted that she follow me. A trail runs deep into the forest from the side of the cabin. I told her I used to love exploring that trail and suggested we do it together. She wholeheartedly approved of the idea and took off. Before I knew it, she was out of sight. She had vanished among the soft, feathery branches of the endless little white pines growing everywhere. While I didn’t care for her leaving my sight, I had to smile at how excited she was to adventure down that trail, just as I used to be.
I finally caught up with her where several trees had fallen across the path. The trail continued in a few directions beyond the trunks that were difficult to climb over, but the rhododendrons were thick, and it looked as though, from that point on, the paths were made not by two-footed but by four-footed sojourners. At the end of the easy route, I told her how I remembered going far down this trail myself as a child, only to have a huge doe walk out a few feet in front of me. I told her how the creature and I stood with our eyes locked, and how I would try to take a step toward her and she would take a single step back. She never ran. She never looked alarmed. She simply watched me as I watched her. I’ve seen countless deer before, but this was magical. We were so close to each other, and neither of us was afraid. It felt as though, at any second, the meeting might become Narnian, and we would begin to speak, politely introducing ourselves and discussing the turning of the leaves.
My daughter loved my tale and listened with rapt attention. I asked why she had wandered away from me so quickly, and she told me she was looking for unicorns because the place felt magical enough to have them. I was shocked. That is exactly—and I do mean exactly—what I thought at her age. This forest was enchanted, and you could come upon absolutely anything in it. Finding unicorns was even a priority during my adventures here back then. She felt exactly what I had felt. Her imagination traveled the same path through underbrush and dreams, and she was just as intoxicated by its spell as I had been.
Sometimes her mind is so much like mine that it is almost frightening. Now, don’t get me wrong: she can be the diametric opposite of me in some ways, too. But there are so many things that amaze me because of how alike we are. Who knew that flowing through our veins, in tiny strands of DNA, were flights of imagination, peculiar thought patterns, and particular interests, woven in alongside blonde hair and long legs? I had no idea how much she could possibly be her mother’s daughter. For better or worse, she came by it honest.
